


And If I Might Suffer More

by muldezgron



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Angst, Changing Tenses, Death, Fallen London Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Julian of Norwich quotes, M/M, Obsession, Revenge, Sacrifice, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27499507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muldezgron/pseuds/muldezgron
Summary: The reason for the vow, he told you, is to ensure that our loves will be as forbidden as hers is. She expects us to break it. It may well be her hope. After all, don’t our stories count towards her mission, too?You have to admit he was very persuasive.
Relationships: Mr Spices/Mr Wines (Fallen London), Mr Veils/Mr Candles (Fallen London)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	And If I Might Suffer More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidolon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidolon/gifts).



> So I decided that in November, instead of writing yet another nanowrimo novel draft to stuff into a drawer with all the rest, I'd use the same daily word count to finish my WIPs and write those Ideas I had but never actually did anything with.
> 
> In the middle of this, [Eidolon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidolon/) says to me, "Hey, you should write that Veils Story."
> 
> (They needed no further context. I knew exactly which Veils Story they were thinking of.)
> 
> I said, "Okay, but you'll have to beta it." And so they did.

There were eleven of you. Normally, a Messenger would employ seven servants, one for each spire, but this one had put out a call that was not normal, not common, and most certainly prohibited. It would require precisely twelve to descend into the darkness inside the skull of a dead god, and twelve to re-emerge into the light of a doomed sun.

You were, of course, one of them. You were drawn, simply put, by the thrill of the forbidden. The sweetest fruit is stolen from the King’s orchard; the finest hide, from the hart on the King’s grounds. You were joined by ten others—

The Smith, the oldest, taciturn and dour, his motives unknown and unknowable. The Trader, possessed of a venial greed, driven mostly by the promise of great reward and dreams of a future as a Merchant King. The Mason, similarly desirous of riches, but with expectations tempered with realism.

The Scholar, almost giddy with eagerness for the chance to learn secrets that can only live in shadows. The Farmer, oddly innocent, perhaps unaware of the key differences between this and any other offered position. The Artisan, likewise prepared for normal trade with a few odd changes here and there.

The Firestarter, pulled in almost against his will by a nettlesome itch, as if called by a lover whose face he does not yet know. The Prince, thrown from the mountain to the gutter by none other than his own youthful impulses and foolishness. The Glassmaker, scarred and twisted, driven off into the cold unknown for the sin of whispers in the dark, and lured to the Convocation by the possibility of forgiveness.

The lowest of them all was the Runt. His crime was his smallness, his colorless visage, and his refusal to be ashamed of either of these things.

You had a dozen different pet names for him, most of which you never said out loud. To be fair, there were many things you never said out loud. You used to wonder if, perhaps, you had met in Axile instead, you might have said more.

Unfortunately, time and luck were not kind to you. You did not meet until the eleven were gathered and you had sworn a vow not to love. Even as you were making the vow, you wondered if the Messenger required it for the mundane reasons she gave, or if she was simply that bitter after everything she’d been through.

At the time, it seemed fair enough. Whether she was lying or telling the truth, you could understand a love-ravaged concubine not wanting to be tortured by the bliss of her servants. You even found her somewhat sympathetic. You were not sure that the love stories of the lowest on the Chain would end up meaning anything to the highest, but if the nature of the Prince gave any clues as to how royalty thought, perhaps it wasn’t so hopeless.

You were less congenial about it after a few years in the First City. The Runt’s laughter was a scintillant sword hanging over you in every moment. You comforted yourself with the thought that even the Runt, this pearlescent aberration, would have better sense than to accept overtures from someone like you.

You comforted yourself so much, he had to corner you in the Stone-Cone Temple to even broach the topic. It was a little absurd; you towered over him and could have easily brushed him aside. He reveled in his certainty that you never would.

The reason for the vow, he told you, is to ensure that our loves will be as forbidden as hers is. She expects us to break it. It may well be her hope. After all, don’t our stories count towards her mission, too?

You have to admit he was very persuasive.

His optimism regarding the Messenger’s intentions did not seem to hold up when it came to the Flukes. He argued avidly for her to keep her promise to them. They were held to the same vow. Rather than consider rescinding the requirement, or dropping sly hints at its flexible nature, the Messenger consistently refused to devote any attention to their needs. Whatever their stories could be, she had no interest. They were not what she wanted. They were theatrical props.

He would not give up. He was so sure that she would not make a promise and then throw them away as if they were nothing.

Perhaps the Messenger held others to higher standards than she held herself. If that was the case, you were the worst choice of servant. The whole reason you were an exile was a stubborn refusal to obey the rules if they didn’t make sense to you. The more irritated she seemed when the Runt would remind her of her promise, again and again, the more you felt the defiant urge to sweep him up in your arms, retreat with him to your chambers, and not emerge until dawn.

You would have disbelieved anyone who told you that the centuries in the First City were the halcyon days of your service, yet all things must come to an end. When the deal went through for the Second City, you had an unsettling feeling. Something felt wrong. You chalked it up to an excessive attachment and tried to ignore it. After all, it was basically the same deal as the First—here is a monarch, here is that monarch’s dying beloved, here is a City offered in exchange for his life. Everyone had learned from the mistakes made the last time around, especially the most important lesson: _sola dosis facit venenum._ It was going to be better this time around.

Then the Second City fell, and you discovered you had been had.

The forlorn monarch and her dying beloved? She’d brought the asp to him herself. She and her sisters, they’d planned it from the beginning. They wanted the Second City to fall, and once the trap was sprung, you found yourselves practically entombed in a vault between a pair of stone lions.

No trade. No stories. The Messenger was forced to burrow deep, like a hermit crab in a chamberpot.

You were just as unwilling to accept this as you had anything before. You clawed at the doors for years straight. The Runt tried to help. He probably didn’t make much of an impact, but you appreciated the sentiment. You eventually succeeded in tearing down a small corner of the door. You smashed the fallen corner against the edges of the hole for weeks, chipping away at it until your makeshift chisel had crumbled to lime and chalk.

Here, said the Mason. I found this.

He handed you a carved head, an older style from before the Daughters’ father. He knew it was granite, though you did not. What you did know was that this poor soul’s face was making much quicker work of the hole than the corner had.

It was not long before you had widened the hole enough that the Runt could fit. You watched him squeeze through. It bothered you that you couldn’t go with him. He was gone for hours, and you could see it in everyone else’s eyes—no one else thought he was going to return.

Return he did, though, with a sack of welcome relief: salted meats, dried dates, figs, and raisins, dented loaves of bread and several jars of cloudy, thick beer. The Prince and the Farmer had downed most of the beer before you had even seen it was there. Your attention was spent looking him over for injury, which made him laugh.

It wasn’t that hard, he said. I think maybe they feel sorry for us.

The Trader scowled at the Runt when he said this. You knew he didn’t intend it to mean that they were right to do this to you. It just wasn’t in his nature to hate, you thought, no matter how much naked selfishness he witnessed. If he couldn’t acknowledge the Flukes had been given a raw deal by the Messenger, how was it any different if he tried to see the Daughters in a positive light?

You were nowhere near as generous when you managed to widen the hole enough to escape, yourself.

Although it should have been possible for others to climb through the hole as well, they were hesitant to try after seeing you return with your wounds from the hunts. It is nothing too serious, you insisted, and indeed, the scars that formed as your injuries healed were far less severe than those the Glassmaker had arrived with. The Smith might have been willing to risk it, but he was far larger than you. You could not widen the hole further and venture forth at the same time.

The Runt continued to head out as well, and somehow continued to have success retrieving edible respite. He never returned with wounds. In spite of their gratitude, some of your fellows grumbled quietly in corners, conspiracy theories of collaboration with Daughters. Perhaps he had become their pet, some wondered.

You had followed him, once, watching from afar. Most of the food was stolen. He stole some of it himself. Some was stolen by cats. Some was given by street children in exchange for the indignity of lowering his hood and allowing them to run their fingers across his head. It was hard to stay hidden where you were when you saw one grubby little git try to stuff a hand inside his ear.

And then he came back to the rest of you with his spoils, blissfully unaware of the suspicion being cast upon him.

This could not continue.

You spoke with the Messenger. You had to climb very far down to reach her. She had burrowed deeply, almost too deep, wracked with sobs from the nostalgia of stone. She was half-submerged in her own tears. You had to be careful not to fall in, yourself.

Despite her state, she was able to give you some direction. Across the ocean, to the west. The mouth of the well. The descent of the serpent. A great ball court. A wall of grinning skulls. A platform decorated with carvings of eagles and jaguars devouring human hearts. A spiraling observatory of stone.

You met with the priests at the edge of the well of sacrifice. They were expecting you, and yet, they did not have loved ones they wished to be saved. This was a place where men, even kings, must die to feed the gods. These were priests who held severed heads aloft by the hair, still dripping with warm blood. They opened chests wide with great precision, to offer still beating hearts to the heavens. They would accept only one thing in trade for their city: a god to feed them as men had always done.

The Runt was the only one you told where you were going. When you returned, you did not tell him the price that they demanded. You knew what needed to be done. This would be your last night together. In the morning, you told him a half-truth, that they would only take a little. You knew damn well that they would not.

Before leaving, you embraced him tightly, and he was confused by how reluctant you were to let go. You were trying not to think about how much this would hurt him. You were failing miserably.

When you arrived at the Temple of the Feathered Serpent, the priests were waiting at the base, and they looked at you with inscrutable decorum.

You promised to bring us an offering, they said.

I did, you said, and you will have it.

Where is the offering? they asked.

Right here, you said.

The only evidence of their confusion was a brief glance behind you, as if it was possible that you had brought someone that they simply could not see.

You thought that you were prepared for what would happen. You were not. No one could be prepared for this.

It hurts. It hurts more than you thought anything ever could. You thought it would only be physical pain, a terrible thing that you could endure, but it is more than that. It is a violation. On some level you had believed your own half-truth: they would only take a little. They would take your life, consume your flesh, and then it would be over.

They are taking more than your life. They are consuming more than your flesh. It is nowhere near over. It hurts so much.

I wish I could do more for you. I wish I could numb the pain, or at least help take your mind off of what is happening to you.

You are certain I am a hallucination, a delusion you are grasping at in the depths. You know you are alone. You chose to be alone, because there was no other way, and this is your mind shattering from the horror of what is happening to you.

You should be kinder to yourself. If madness is even a small reprieve from your suffering, then let yourself be mad.

You are long past the point of being able to scream. Your voice is gone. You know that you have been begging them to stop, to take someone else, and the guilt you feel from this only magnifies the pain further.

I want to remind you that you have done nothing wrong. Nothing you say now could have any effect on the outcome. You slipped past the accretion disc and into the event horizon quite some time ago.

You have no idea what I am saying. Your mind must be very far gone to be inventing words as badly as the Scholar.

You do not actually want them to take someone else. You don’t believe me when I tell you this, but it is true. Who would you give them in your stead? Be specific. Tell me who you would wish to suffer this.

You cannot. Every face your memory summons as a suggestion, you reject with vehement outrage. You have lived in exile together for thousands of years. You have been imprisoned together for more than two thousand. You would all die here, bound by the treachery of daughters, unless something was done. If you did not offer someone, the Messenger would have chosen for you. You know who she would have chosen. There was no other way.

As the lacre fills what remains of your mouth, I wish that I could tell you that this will be over soon.

The truth is that it will never be over. A time will come when the God-Eaters will retreat, and at that time it will be done for them, but it will never be done for you. Before all this began, you had thought that you would die, and that would be the end: you would feel nothing else. That nothingness will never come.

The Third City will begin to fall, and everyone but the Runt will be surprised by this. You never told them that a deal was in the works. The Runt will explain it to them, excitedly, telling them the half-truth you had told him that morning. The Smith will be the first to realise what you have done, but he will remain as silent as ever. It will dawn on the Prince and the Trader at the same time, and they, too, will say nothing. They will carefully inch closer to each other, until they are standing closely enough to hope that the overlapping volumes of fabric will hide the sight of their gloved hands coming together in a tight grasp. You never knew that you and the Runt were not the only ones with this secret.

The Firestarter will be the first to say something out loud. His words will immediately be received with disbelief and disgust. It will feel, for some, as if he has crossed a forbidden line, risking a terrible imaginary thing becoming reality by allowing it to exist. He will only be speaking the truth, but he will be speaking it too soon. Time will quickly prove him right.

The Runt will be the last to understand. Even as the evidence piles up, it will not be until the Messenger casually confirms your fate that he will pass from denial into blasphemous fury. His optimism had made him a thorn in her side before. He will be her servant in name only, after.

His kindness will not die, but a hardness will join it, standing at its side. He will swear that he will not rest, that he cannot rest. All of Parabola will know where your remains lie. He will be obsessed with telling your story, and it will become common in the Third City to dream of sepulchral whispers and wells. The whispers will insist that the game was rigged, that seven is the number, that a reckoning cannot be postponed forever.

It will break your heart to see him like this.

Without either one ever talking about it, the Glassmaker will join him, though he has a finer control over himself. He will not ignite and burn recklessly as the Runt does. He has learned through experience that there is no point in heating beyond the point of malleability, though when things cool down too much and become sluggish and unworkable, it can be useful to return to the furnace for a time.

He will be upset that you did not turn to him beforehand, that you did not give him the opportunity to volunteer himself, but he will not blame you for it. He will have the same mistaken impression as you did, that it would be passage into nothingness, and he has secretly longed to become nothing for as long as he has been an exile. He will regret what he will see as a missed opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, to earn his forgiveness and be rewarded with the end of pain.

Every now and then, the slag will cool too quickly and shatter into pieces. He will sweep up the shards and return them to the furnace to try and try again. That’s the advantage of glass: as long as the fires burn hot enough, you can always try again.

The Prince and the Trader will cling to each other nearly every night for three hundred years, keenly aware that if it had not been you, it could have been either one of them. They will know that to the Messenger, this was simply a means to an end, and the promised reward will no longer seem worth the cost. They will work together to broker the deal for the Fourth City, hoping that if they make enough haste, they can be freed of their contract before it claims their lives, too.

Neither of them will be able to care anymore whether or not the Messenger acquires the stories she desires. The mere mention of the topic will highlight every bristling hair of the Trader's irritable nature. Even the Prince's empathy for her plight will be tempered with the knowledge that if the Messenger's mission consumed everything they hold dear, she still would not feel a thing for anyone but the Sun.

The Mason will try to carry on as if nothing happened. As long as he is able to conduct business, does it matter what tragedies befall his fellows? After all, he will tell himself, you made this decision on your own, without any prior discussion, without any warning. If you were so tired of waiting that you were willing to destroy yourself, surely no responsibility falls on his shoulders. Guilt for something he did not seek out or even ask for would be unreasonable at best.

Yet he will not be able to let it go. Your spheres do not overlap, and this will not change. Your domain will be given to the Artisan. As marble is to sculpture and kaolinite is to porcelain, they will see each other often. He will see the bolts of fine silks and blankets of thick wool every encounter going forward, and he will be reminded of what you did.

One day it will be too much for him to bear and every ounce of regret the Mason tries to smother in himself will instead come spilling off of the scale in front of the Artisan. He will slink off without a word, humiliated, proved a sentimental fool even to himself.

A letter from the Artisan will arrive the next day, thanking him for breaking the silence. I have felt the same for so long, it will say, but I believed I was the only one.

The Smith will say nothing to anyone, and on his own, he will quietly construct a game. He will call it Cloak-and-Dagger. One half of the name refers to you; the other, to the one who remembers you. The players will eagerly embrace it, most never seeing how the deceptively simple rules cut the stories to ribbons, severing the dramatic tension, rendering it all moot through the seductive draw of violence without consequences.

When London falls, it will take a few years, but a day will come when an ember-eyed competitor will pay him an unexpectedly friendly visit.

Your game is coming along quite well, the Firestarter will say, but it could be doing better.

The Smith will say nothing, as always, but he will turn to look at the Firestarter as he speaks.

We could pool our resources, he will continue, to further lower the barriers to participation. The more the merrier, as they say. It will become harder and harder for her to find a story that hasn't been rendered unusable by her exacting standards.

The Smith will tilt his head curiously.

I had begun to draft a plan of my own, the Firestarter will say. A desperate one, I see now. Complete madness. It leans too heavily on Parabola to ever be guaranteed to work. But in reviewing it, I realised—this is how he must have felt, isn’t it? This willingness to do anything, _absolutely anything_ , to ensure that what you love will carry on.

His words will not inspire any movement in the Smith's hooded form beyond the glow of eyes moving up and down in assessment. The Firestarter will feel uneasy under his gaze.

I thought perhaps you felt the same, he will say. Was I wrong?

The Smith will shake his head. He will raise a finger of his left hand in a polite request for time as he takes out a piece of paper and begins to scrawl on it with his right. It will be a surprisingly long letter from him, and the Firestarter will sigh with relief when he takes it from his hands and reads it.

There will be conflict between their plans and those of the Prince and Trader, of course. Their desire to move on as quickly as possible will be, by nature, in opposition to the Smith and Firestarter’s attempts to trip and stagger the Messenger every step of the way. The Mason and Artisan will be unsure who to side with. It will take them both many afternoons and evenings and nights putting their two very different heads together, trying to figure out their colleagues’ labyrinthine machinations, before they help each other realise that both approaches stem from the same root.

They will reach out to the Farmer and the Scholar, separately, to see where they stand on this.

This will be where your attention will linger, where it will have already been lingering for many years. It will intersect with your vigil over the wanderings of the Runt. He will be unyielding in his unending quest for vengeance, exhausted yet persistent, never sparing a minute to rest.

The resources of a renegade servant will not be enough for him. The Flukes will have devoted the shapeling arts towards his cause. This will not be enough for him, either. He and the Glassmaker will make bargain after bargain with cats and serpents alike, and it will still not be enough. He will want to be in every dream at once. He will have a plan to accomplish this.

It will take some time to force enough devils to participate. It will be hard for them to tell if they are more frightened of the Runt’s plan or the Runt himself, but the Glassmaker will assure them that there is only one way out, and that way is _through_.

Prisoner’s Honey harmlessly spirits one away to the land of dreams. Gaoler’s Honey delivers one into the memories of the unfortunate, with a small risk of permanent physical change. Cardinal’s Honey transports to the dreams of the dead; without the antidote, there is no return.

This will be a new cultivar. It will be like Cardinal’s Honey in most respects, but will not involve the dead. Even the dead were alive, once. This will be connected to the dreaming of things that do not dream, that always dream, that have never been, that have always been.

There will be no antidote, but that is fine; there will be only one dose, one spoonful, not even a whole bottle. The devils will not be convinced to make more. The Runt will not argue. He will only need enough for one, anyway, and there will be no turning back.

He will set his affairs in order, one last time, and go to his chambers to transform into something impossible.

The Honey will not be where he left it. He will up-end every last inch of his own space searching for it before he notices the Glassmaker standing in the door frame behind him.

My sincerest apologies, he will tell the Runt, but I am too selfish to pass up a second opportunity.

The Glassmaker will eat the only dose.

He will sigh with relief as he shudders out of existence, as he will no longer need to tend the coals. He will finally be able to let the furnace burn out, to allow glowing embers to cool and fade. He will need only to reflect and focus the light of others, to take the wide, heterogeneous spectrum, align it clean and pure, and channel it all to a single destination. It will be faster than a telegraph. It will cut finer than any knife.

The Runt will be screaming at him long after he is gone, and he will not stop until he passes out from exhaustion.

When the Runt collapses, the Farmer will be there. He has his resources, his eyes and ears—everyone needs to eat, after all, and those that don't still desire immortality. Send out the merest suggestion that there will be cider in it; they will not be stopped.

He will bring him to the Scholar when they find him. Each and every time. They will have done it for three cities by now. It will be almost routine, their ongoing efforts to keep him alive.

You will always be grateful to them for this.

The Runt will awaken on a couch in the Scholar’s study. He will be surrounded by piles of books, but this is normal for the Scholar—he will always have staff to put away his books when he is done with them, mostly because he never would remember to if left to it himself.

If you think we did not know of your plan with the Devils, the Scholar will say, seated in a nearby armchair, you would be deeply errolulent.

The Runt’s immediate reply will be constructed in the kind of language that should not be repeated in mixed company. Or perhaps any company at all, since it will manage to set an end table and a stack of books on fire.

Do you think he would desiderate this? the Scholar will ask, getting up to smother the flaming books with the sleeve of his cloak. Do you think he would be pleased to see you engage in such tortuitous self-excoriation?

No, the Runt will say, but I cannot continue business as usual. I cannot go on like nothing ever happened, like he never lived. There will be a reckoning, and it will not be postponed indefinitely.

Destroying yourself, the Scholar will say, is no reckoning at all. Unless you are somehow under the impression that you are more at fault than she is.

More harsh words spoken, more books bursting into flames. The Scholar will have to stomp these out. A bit of an undignified hassle, and a shame, of course, though he will have at least had the sense to move his favourites to a safer location before all of this.

Sorry. I am overly fond of books. You do not know that yet, but you will.

It speaks to how much patience the Scholar will have to possess, that he will be able accept this in stride and focus his efforts on getting through to the Runt. He will have a relentless focus, and while he will have mercy for the Runt, he will not have mercy for how the Runt’s plans have bared fangs and circled menacingly around the Messenger without ever actually lunging for her throat.

Have you not noticed how everyone has absquatulated from her? he will ask, rising to his full height in an uncharacteristic roar. Have you not seen how not one is agitous regarding whether or not she secures her stories anymore? Those two with the infurnaries, they’re outright extirpaging them! And I confess—I confess readily!—that while I have a great weakness for a storgeous tale for the ages, an erophiliac yarn of hearts entangled, I have also come to agree that they are a waste on her. She must not have them. She must not succeed. His agapethetic oblaticide may not have been the variety of love story she wishes to acquire, but it is the one that will cause her downfall. If your particification cannot be relied on, we will all dissiculate her without you, but _by the Void_ I will not allow you to destroy yourself when not merely one but _two_ have now given their lives so that you may live!

It is entirely probable that he will hit the nail on the head when implying that the Runt’s actions were more born from guilt than from the desire for justice. The mention of the Glassmaker’s fate as a mirror of your own will be the moment that the wick is blown out at both ends. It will be the moment that he is finally able to cry.

When he has gotten it out of his system, he will, at last, be a force that cannot be ignored. He will be the reckoning. They all will be.

The Messenger has been and always will be higher on the Chain than they are, but there will be nine of the eleven remaining, and they will always be sharp and resourceful. When they take their opposing efforts and combine them in the same direction, it will be surprising how easily she falls.

There will never be a Sixth City.

They will be comforted by the thought that you have been avenged, and that the fate that befell you will never happen to another. You will be comforted by the knowledge that they will continue together, and not merely survive, but flourish.

Be kind to yourself now, as kind as you will be to me one day. Your suffering will not be in vain. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. These words are true, even if the promise that bears them now is empty and false.

Know that you will never fade into nothingness, because you will never be forgotten.

I will be much younger when we meet than I am now. I was fifteen when I died; it will be a few years after that, but surprisingly few. It was a guard dog in a library, I will tell you, as you are trying to take my measurements.

You will click your tongue and tell me to stop holding my breath when you measure my waist, that the only thing that will come of it is a shirt that is too small.

You will not come across as dismissive. Far from it. In a way that I still do not fully understand, you will have a preternatural talent for knowing when I simply need to be treated like an ordinary person.

The pain never ends. The pain is ongoing. The pain is a part of you that you will never shed, but you have so many, many parts to you, and it will never be the whole of who you are. It will take me an embarrassingly long time to learn this lesson from you, despite your best efforts to teach it to me.

You are probably the reason I stopped being so afraid of dogs.

I will ask you, at one point, about where you were from, and you will try to explain the Great Chain to me, and I will find it bewildering in its rigidity. You will laugh and admit that yes, it is bewildering and rigid and a complete waste of time.

It is not the important part, you will tell me.

What is the important part? I will ask you.

‘Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending,’ you will say, quoting Julian of Norwich.

And you will be right.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a weakness for Second or Third Person POV that turns out to be First Person in disguise. I also have a weakness for Meaningful Use of Verb Tense. Hopefully didn't overdo it here, but I mean, it was the perfect opportunity.
> 
> ~~And Then Mirrors Was A Laser~~


End file.
